


Pumpkin

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Hand Jobs, Intoxication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Higgins has a little too much to drink during a stakeout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pumpkin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

George isn’t quite hungry, doesn’t need to go to the washroom, isn’t even that tired, but he still is very much looking forward to Henry’s return and his own break. This is easily the most boring stakeout they’ve ever been on. And that’s saying something. At least when Henry was around, there was someone to talk to. Now it’s just the dull emptiness of the carriage, with not quite enough room to stretch out in. He puts his feet on the opposite bench anyway, right next to both their discarded hats, feeling a little bad for getting the soles of his boots on the thin cushion. His legs are starting to cramp up. 

His arms are crossed over his chest, half for somewhere to put them and mostly because it’s cold. These uniforms just aren’t warm enough in the winter. He peeks through the slit in the curtains for the umpteenth time, but the house across the street is, like it’s been all night, devoid of any life. 

Something bangs against the opposite door, and George jumps so high he nearly hits the ceiling. He yelps and whirls around, too late to stop the intruder, but when the door swings open, it’s just Henry’s grinning face, outlined in the yellow glow of the streetlamp. It still takes George a second to register that it’s safe; in the middle of the night like this, with the inside of the carriage so dark, it’s very easy to be extra jumpy. 

“Evening, George,” Henry chirps as he climbs inside, clattering the carriage door shut behind him. He turns to give George a broader grin, harder to see with most of the light blocked out; the yellow curtains only let in so much. George takes his feet off the opposite seat, though Henry sits beside him. George turns to face him, all ready to scold. 

“Honestly, Higgins, you scared me half to death! You could at least knock.”

“I did knock,” Henry says, and he looks affronted for about five seconds before going back to a sloppy smile. “I just didn’t wait for you to answer.”

Frowning, George is about to explain why that’s very stupid, then sniffs instead. 

He sniffs the air again and leans closer to Henry.

“’M wearing new cologne,” Henry offers, leaning back into George so close that George has to jerk his head away, scowling.

“Not that. You smell...” George’s eyebrows draw down. “Henry, are you drunk?”

“What?” Henry scoffs, but he isn’t taking the accusation nearly as seriously as he should. “Nah. M’ fine. Had a couple of beers, that’s all.” He isn’t slurring much, but then, from George’s career choice, he knows that not all drunks do that. Some hide it better than others. 

“We’re on duty.” And with George, no less. That puts George in the uncomfortable position of having to report his friend to the inspector, not that he necessarily will, but nonetheless, it’s an awkward spot to be in. “And now what am I supposed to do?”

Throwing his legs up on the other bench with none of the hesitation George had, Henry suggests brightly, “Chat?”

George scowls harder. “I meant for my break! I can’t very well leave you like this.”

“Why not? The lights come on, call the detective. I got it.”

“Yes, but _do_ you? If you’re drunk, you’re hardly a reliable constable.”

“George, I’m not _drunk_. I just had a little bit...”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” George promptly lifts both hands, one with three fingers in the air and one with his index finger folded. The correct count is three and a half: a much more effective trick than whole numbers, he finds.

Squinting, Henry mumbles, “Well that’s not fair, it’s dark in here...”

“How many fingers, Henry?”

“Sssss... five,” Henry settles on. He grins again, giving George the distinct impression that he’s teasing. Which is even worse, in a way. Over-playfulness can certainly be a sign of intoxication. He knew this mission was boring, but _still_. They’re going to have to have a talk tomorrow when Henry sobers up. 

For now, George crosses his arms and stares out the window, trying to concentrate on less frustrating things. 

“You’re really not going to go on your break?” There is a slight waver to Henry’s voice.

George doesn’t look back around. “I’m really not.”

There’re a few seconds of silence before Henry sighs, “You’re a good friend, George.”

Unable to resist, George turns around to say, neutral, “Thank you, Henry.”

Henry’s frowning. Suddenly, the mask of happiness has fallen away, and Henry looks at him sullenly. All bitterness. Feeling a pang of guilt, even though George knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, he turns back around properly. There’s no point sitting with a grudge all night, they’ll need to work it out—

Henry mutters, “I’m sorry I got drunk.”

“So you admit you’re drunk?” Henry wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t answer. His eyes scrunch together momentarily, like fighting an oncoming headache. George sighs. “Why _would_ you do that? You know we’re on duty...” And Henry’s a better constable than that. 

“It’s just too hard,” Henry mumbles. He shakes his head, looking down. “It’s been awhile since our last watch together, and... and... I’ve been thinking about things lately...” His shoulders slump, and he looks at George very, very intently. “Tonight was sort of killing me. I thought a little alcohol might make it easier.”

Tilting his head curiously, George asks, “What’s hard? I mean, I know it’s a boring one, but all we have to do is sit here and wait; it’s hardly difficult...” Henry’s shaking his head like that isn’t it. “Henry, what do you mean?”

“It’s just... so hard to be near you all the time and not... you know, we work together, and then sometimes we hang out together, and we pretty much always get stationed together, and it’s just... when it’s at night like this, and we’re all alone, it’s just really hard to resist...”

“Resist what?” He’s not making any sense. He sways slightly, and George can’t tell if it’s a nervous twitch or the alcohol catching up with him. George puts one hand on Henry’s leg just to steady him. 

Henry looks down at that hand, licks his lips, and looks back at George.

He mumbles, “To resist doing this.”

And he leans forward so suddenly that George has no time to pull away. Henry’s head tilts to the side, and his mouth presses against George’s, whole body over his. Henry’s weight brushes his chest, the buttons of the same uniform digging into him. George’s hands are caught in midair, frozen, but Henry’s lift to cup George’s face, palms firm along the sides, fingers brushing back through his short hair, thumbs gently stroking his cheeks. George can barely move. His lips part, mostly in surprise, and Henry’s tongue snakes out to trace the bottom one. George’s barely been kissed before, let alone been _licked._ He shivers, brain shut down. 

His eyes close, and when Henry slowly retreats, they flicker open. He looks at Henry, wide eyed and shocked. There’s a tangy flavour along his bottom lip that he takes in nervously. His hand falls away from Henry’s knee. 

Henry’s eyes are glazed. He still looks at George somewhat carefully, while George...

George doesn’t do anything, just blinks stupidly and _stares_ at his best friend. 

Finally, he forces a weak laugh and mumbles, “I think you had one too many beers, Henry.”

“You didn’t fight me,” Henry says blankly.

George flushes. He goes defensive instantly. “Well, of course I didn’t—I was too busy being shocked.”

“But you could’ve pushed me back, and you didn’t, and you moaned a little—”

Turning redder, George insists, “I didn’t moan!”

“Yes you did,” Henry insists right back, lips now twitching up again at the corners. “It was little, but I heard it.”

Spluttering, George asks, “Well... why would you even do that??”

“Because I like you.”

“Well, thank you, Henry, I like you too, but that doesn’t mean you should just—”

He doesn’t get to finish; Henry’s pressing into him again. George is just as shocked as the first time, but now he knows he should stop it. Still, he can’t seem to move. He shuts his eyes again, Henry’s mouth opening against his, and then a probing hand is on his thigh, squeezing lightly, and George opens his mouth to gasp. As soon as he does, Henry’s tongue slips inside. George has half a mind to bite it off, but then Henry’s tongue nudges his, and he just... _melts._

Henry sucks on his tongue in a way that _does_ make him moan. Ashamed, he tries to snatch it back, but Henry’s holding him in. Henry’s fingers slip down through his hair and grip at the collar of his uniform, fisting there, tight, encouraging George. George puts his hands against Henry’s chest and can’t bring himself to push. 

Henry pulls a few centimeters back anyway, mumbling, “Sorry.”

Breathless, George mutters out of habit, “That’s alright, but—”

Henry’s kissing him again. He kisses George so hard, so fiercely that George leans back, and Henry slides closer, closer, George squirms, but he hits the side of the carriage, and then there just isn’t anywhere to go. His back digs into the wood while Henry’s thighs tangle with his, rutting into him, and Henry’s hand slips higher, higher. George gasps in Henry’s mouth, and Henry lets him go, kisses him again. George can taste the alcohol in Henry’s mouth, but Henry isn’t fumbling. 

Henry’s palm slips over the front of George’s pants, and George jerks his head to the side, panting. Henry kisses the side of his face again, pulls his collar aside and nips at his neck, licks over his throat. George’s eyes are scrunched closed, but he can _feel_ everything. And it does feel good, so good. 

Oddly _right_. But he still hisses, “Henry, this is wrong—”

“It isn’t,” Henry insist between kisses, “if it was wrong, why would God make us feel this way?” Henry’s hand presses down into George’s crotch; George sucks in a breath and grits his teeth. He should pull Henry’s hand away, he knows, but his hands are desperately clutching at the fabric over Henry’s shoulders, ready to push away. “Besides, my cousin’s one, and he’s a good person, I swear, and even Murdoch decided not to have a problem with them, and you look up to him, right? Don’t you, George?” _Of course_ George does. He remembers that case well, remembers the strange way he felt about it, but that doesn’t mean he’s _like that_. He likes women, anyway, he’s sure of it. 

But... but it doesn’t feel at all wrong when Henry kisses him. And Henry’s rubbing his crotch, and the little carriage is suddenly overwhelmingly, stiflingly hot. George grits his teeth.

George mumbles weakly, “Henry, you’re drunk. You’ll regret this—”

“No,” Henry moans. “Want this, always wanted this, God, George, you’re so _cute_ , always want you...” George frowns. 

Somehow, he winds up half-teasing, “You mean handsome?” But his breath is too short, and the way Henry bites the shell of his ear makes him die into another shameful moan. 

“Handsome,” Henry whispers. “Handsome, talented, funny... and the way you say my name...”

Without even meaning to, George mumbles, “Henry...”

And Henry moans right in George’s ear, rubbing his whole body into George’s. The buttons of Henry’s uniform press into his skin through his fabric, but that’s hardly the biggest indent he can feel. Henry’s hand finally pulls away from his crotch, and George nearly whimpers, wanting it back, however sinful. But he can’t even think about the bible right now. Wasn’t he the one always coming up with alternate theories...? He can justify aliens, surely he can justify...

Henry’s undoing George’s fly, and he can’t handle that. Just can’t. He wills his hands to stop this insanity, but they won’t. 

He turns his head and kisses Henry instead. It’s clumsy, awkward, but Henry rights it and kisses him back with such passion that George can completely lose himself in it. He doesn’t think about the hand slipping beneath his pants and his underwear, until it’s slid through the dark curls around the base of his cock and touching—

“Henry,” George gasps, breaking off.

Henry shushes him and kiss his face and tells him, “So good, George, you feel so good, love you so much...”

 _Love?_ George can’t handle that right now, doesn’t even acknowledge it. Henry’s drunk. George is a horrible friend. Henry’s fingers trace the length of his shaft and wrap around it, squeeze once and George is in _heaven_. This couldn’t be wrong, he’s suddenly sure, feels too good, feels too right, he’d just know if it was, wouldn’t he? He tries to think of every other time Henry’s ever looked at him, every time they’ve been alone, if there’s been anything like this, but he’s too lost in this moment. Henry grabs his chin and brings him back around to kiss properly.

George has never kissed anyone so much in his entire life. It’s one after the other, nonstop, and he wouldn’t change it. Henry’s hand starts to move, starts to pump up and down, limited inside his open pants, and George spreads his legs wider. Maybe under everything, he feels a little _dirty_ , a little _cheap_ , spreading his legs for another man like this, and somehow that gives him a thrill. They’re still in public, technically. They should both be locked up for public indecency. What would Detective Murdoch say? He’d probably look the other way...

George’s arms wrap around Henry’s shoulders. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he’s done. Henry keeps parting their mouths to let George breathe; George doesn’t have enough experience for this, doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he keeps tilting his head and letting it happen again. Henry strokes his cock better than George ever has—that’s sinful, too, but he’s accepted that, and is this that different? It feels different, does it count?—and George’s hips are rolling into it, bucking up into Henry’s hand. He can’t help it. He feels bad, guilty—should he...? But he doesn’t have the coherency to manage anything else. Just kisses Henry and kisses Henry more and lets Henry kiss him back...

Then he’s getting close, too close; his stomach tightens and his pulse quickens, head going from foggy to _so thin_ to nothing at all. His balls tighten and that’s it; he explodes all over the insides of his pants and Henry’s hand, breaking the kiss to gasp and _moan_ so loud. He arches up, clinging to Henry’s shoulders. He sees white, and the pleasure ripples through his whole body, makes him squirm with delight. Henry pulls back to look at him, and George can’t even care. His eyes close and he shivers with the final spasms of his orgasm, murmuring weakly, “ _Henry_...”

“God, George,” Henry murmurs, sounding just as hoarse and spent as George is. “You’re so good. _So_ good.”

George is nothing. He’s a shivering, useless wreck that barely knows how to kiss, left trembling in Henry’s arms. Henry presses a long, lingering kiss to his forehead. George’s hands slowly slip from Henry’s shoulders, and he takes a series of lasting, deep breaths.

He mutters, meaning every word, “You better not regret this in the morning.” He looks in Henry’s eyes, clouded from alcohol and satisfaction. George shakes his head. “I’m going to feel like such a monster...”

A satiated, very happy monster. He feels like he’ll never come down from this high.

Henry chuckles once, and George scowls at him; this is hardly funny. But Henry smiles widely and says, “Only you, George, could get taken advantage of in a carriage and feel like _you’re_ the one that took advantage.”

“I didn’t get taken advantage of, Henry,” George says, feeling slightly annoyed at it, because he feels vaguely like that means Henry could outmatch him, make him do something he didn’t want to. And just because he’s boneless and light-headed right now doesn’t mean Henry’s stronger than him. “I could’ve stopped you if I wanted to.” He can feel that his cheeks are red. He doesn’t say that he’s glad Henry didn’t listen to his own weak protests. 

Henry licks his lips and nods unsteadily. He pulls his hand out of George’s pants, skin brushing over George’s sensitive cock, and George nearly jumps. He hurriedly tucks himself back in and does up his pants, wincing at the dark stain in the fabric. He tells himself that at least there’ll be no one else at the station when they go back to change. No one will have to know. He glances back at Henry and he feels... sort of guilty again. 

He doesn’t know how to... doesn’t know if he should... but he feel obligated to ask tentatively, “Er, do you need me to... uh... you know...”

Henry smiles so wide that his eyes crinkle with it. But he nods down, and George follows his gaze. Henry’s pants sport a damp patch, too, and George is beet red. “But I didn’t even...” he mumbles, trying to take stock of Henry’s hands—one was on his face and the other in his pants, so neither were in Henry’s...

“Seeing you orgasm got me right off,” Henry chuckles. George doesn’t know how that’s possible and thinks he might die of embarrassment. He slinks down the carriage wall, rubbing at his face. 

“We’re going to need to talk about this...”

“Talk away,” Henry says right before yawning.

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m awake, I can—”

“When you’re _sober_ ,” George stresses. Part of him never wants to talk about this again. But the rest of him...

He doesn’t know what to think. He needs some time to be a person again, not a satiated wreck. He needs at least one night just to wonder. This is going to take some sorting, some reconciliation. He doesn’t know how to feel. Henry must see that on George’s face, because he nods suddenly, looking serious.

Then he shuffles down in the seat and leans his head on George’s shoulder, warm body slumped over George’s, and he mumbles, “’Night, George.”

George sighs, “Good night, Henry.” Nevermind that neither of them can actually sleep—they’re still on duty. He doesn’t bother mentioning the house outside they’re supposed to be watching. He checks back out the curtains, but it’s still dead.

Unlike their carriage.

His head leans back against the wood. He stares up at the ceiling.

He feels light and heady and warm. And loved. Which is nice. He breathes out; it’s going to be a long night.

Henry snores suddenly, and George is back to groaning, “Higgins!”


End file.
